


Sunday

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A little wistful happy fic, F/M, Fluff, sort of Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: 'She wonders if she'll ever find him,She wonders if she'll ever fall in love,Maybe she's right there behind him now'





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Little fic inspired by the song ‘Sunday’ by Les Friction.
> 
> [Nothing fancy or angsty or long this time (I know, v different than the usual lmao). Just because we all need something happy every now and then. I hope you like it!!! :D ]

 

She always woke up late on Sundays. 

Woke up to the mid-morning breeze rustling the curtains of her window. Light spilling against her closest door in a shifting aurora borealis. It was too late for birdsongs (and they were few so deep in the heart of the capital). But below and all around her – the sounds of people, moving and chatting and enjoying the sunshine.

The sounds of life.

Sansa woke up late, yes, but not  _ late late _ . Not like how Arya used to wake up at noon (or later) back when she still lived in Winterfell. Granted, Arya usually got up early to run and stayed out late exploring the woods nearby with Nymeria.  _ A wild child _ , serving hands would whisper. Sansa would nod in agreement, but smiled whenever she managed to brush her hands through Nym’s soft coat of fur lined with dirt and leaves. The wolf never minded, nor did Arya. Not when she caught her sister mourning the death of Lady years, years later. 

It wasn’t noon yet, but it was already warm.

Lazy Sundays were so welcome now that Sansa was working. She never realized how much she missed waking up on the weekends and just  _ doing nothing _ . University was hectic, if she was being kind. Hardly ever a moment to just  _ breathe _ , even during weekends or holidays there was always something to occupy her time. Between endless projects and clubs and a modicum of a social life – somehow, those five years felt like they happened to someone else. A long, waking dream.

Out the window, sunlight spilled across the nearby buildings, the streets, and far off in the distance overlooking Blackwater Bay – the Red Keep. Now  _ that  _ was a waking dream if Sansa ever wanted to forget. The minute she spied the Young Lion at university, Sansa was smitten. Infatuated. Lost to the pounding of her heart. She couldn’t get the boy ( _ oh, isn’t he that? _ ) out her mind, awake or asleep or in the haze of schoolwork. She had once wanted his babies, to be his, to live in that crimson castle like a  _ queen _ .

Even if it hurt – gods did it hurt, a shiver trailing down her spine just  _ thinking _ about it – Sansa was glad that song ended with thunderous dissonance.

_ Ding. _

The window closed with a soft  _ clack _ . Curtains drawn over. Sansa weaved back to the kitchen. Poured the hot water through the coffee press, relishing in the familiar warmth that tickled her nose. She’d been an adamant tea-only-drinker until sophomore year of university – and then the sweet caffeine had become her lifeblood. That, and cheddar potato chips from the vending machine, of which her and Margaery had a lifetime worth as ‘dinner’.

She poured her coffee in a paper cup. Snapped the lid on, wincing as an errant drop slipped onto her finger. Sansa grabbed her phone and her hat, tucking sandals onto her feet before saying farewell to her apartment and the bright pink succulent that was her constant companion.

She headed down to the corner where a kindly man sold roses for a stag. He sold other flowers, too, carnations and hydrangeas and daisies, all of them neatly arranged in buckets and tucked beneath an expansive umbrella. Sansa frequented him often. There was something comforting about the look and smell of fresh flowers in her small apartment. It made for company, and reminded her of the fields she and her siblings awed at during the spring thaws. There weren’t many flowers in the North, it being the North and dreadfully cold. But Sansa marveled at the colors of them, reaching as far as she could see. When Margaery invited her to visit Highgarden last summer, Sansa nearly died from how beautiful their fields were. Greens and reds and pinks and blues and purples – so many colors, so many flowers, she never would have imagined such splendor existing in nature if she hadn’t seen it first-hand. Sansa would have felt bad plucking some to take back home if Margery weren’t insisting they were going to wither away like her dear grandma. (Olenna, when she heard of this at dinner, cackled and said to Sansa, “My  _ rose _ may have withered but I’m still alive and kicking, unlike so many other fools.” Margaery silently chided her grandmother with a shake and a smile. Sansa liked the old woman, even if she was unashamedly  _ thorny _ ).

By the time she reached this corner, Sansa finished her coffee and began to peruse the selection of flowers. Idle chat with the man:  _ Isn’t the weather nice today? _ ; and  _ Oh your child is starting middle school already? _ All the while marveling at the small slice of Highgarden deep in the winding streets of King’s Landing. Once, she bought a lovely little orchid to keep her succulent company, but the capital’s heat wasn’t kind to it.

But – and maybe it was the memory of Highgarden that did it – today felt like a  _ rose  _ day. There were ones in all colors: reds and whites and pinks and yellows and purples and even black. Sansa plucked out half a dozen of a creamy yellow and blush pink. Sansa exchanged pleasantries and a handful of stags with the man. Bringing the bouquet to her nose and enjoying their scent. Yes, it was a lovely day.

“These too, pretty girl,” he said with a smile just as she was leaving, offering her extra. Sansa thanked him, adding the two roses of a soft lavender to her bunch. He always threw in extra flowers for her, claiming her smile was currency enough. So she gave him one, ear to ear, and had to keep herself from skipping down the road. It just  _ felt _ like one of those Sundays. She didn’t know why.

Sansa kept to the shady side of the streets as she meandered through the bustling people and gazed at the storefronts. Margaery was still visiting her home and would be back by the end of the month. The semester was about to begin, too, so Arya would be in town again. Sansa never saw her sister much, even when they were at university together (they didn’t study the same subjects, after all. But Arya followed Sansa to King’s Landing for schooling, which was close enough, Arya would say. Sansa saw through her sister’s attempted  _ coldness _ with how often she would visit. Claiming to need help with homework, or food. Usually it was the food that called her sister over). So Sansa wandered King’s Landing with her bunch of roses as her companion. Listening to the crowds. Loving the salty breeze that ruffled her skirts to her legs. 

Her feet brought her to the water today.

It was always cooler here, standing on the cliffs of the Blackwater. There wasn’t a shore per se, not like the kinds further along the coast that were littered with umbrellas and blankets and sandcastles. Here, beside the Keep, were rocks and sparse trees splintering between them. A hundreds yards below was water, and a million yards above the blue expanse of later summer.

Sansa hugged the roses to her chest. Watched the waves grow and grow and grow, finally crashing on the rocks beneath her. If she squinted, she could imagine Essos faaaaar off on the horizon. And beyond that, the edge of the world.

On  _ this  _ edge of the world, on this little corner of the capital, there had been a battle here decades ago. Ships and fire and swords. Sometimes, when the winds were howling, Sansa could hear the cries of the men on the breeze. They whispered for freedom. For their wives and children. For sweet death.

Sansa used to imagine a life where her  _ lord husband _ was a shining knight in silvery plate, charging his horse into battle. Wondered if his battlecry was Sansa’s name. If the thought of her smile, her embrace, her kiss, was what kept his arm swinging and his heart beating.

More than often than that, she wondered if she would ever find him (or  _ her _ , as Margaery was so quick to say that true love could come in any shape or size). Sansa  _ thought _ in a lifetime ago she had found him. Her gallant knight with golden hair. 

She didn’t dream of knights anymore.

Now, she wondered if she would ever fall – truly, deeply, madly – in love again. And her partner fall just as passionately in love with her. 

Someone from university? An old friend from Winterfell come down for the summer? A stranger on the street, or the man that sold her roses? Oft, she thought  _ true love _ a thing of stories.

But sometimes, in the quiet laziness of Sundays, when her whole body was filled with a certain lightness that even the horrors of her past love couldn’t overshadow them – sometimes, Sansa held on to that idea of true love.

A thought trickled into her mind. Planted itself between the rocking waves and the soft scent of roses and the quiet pleas of soldiers. Sansa closed her eyes and turned towards the city.

The bells at Baelor’s Sept rang – a loud ringing, not a  _ clanging _ like pots and pans, but an almost welcoming sound. Even here by the shore, everywhere in the city, the thundrous ringing could be heard. One… Two… 

The birds, in response, sang. Calls to their mates, calls of happiness and excitement and just  _ enjoying the day _ . She wondered if she were a bird, a soaring white-winged beauty, where would she fly? How long would she call, day and night, for her mate to find her?

The bells, the birds, the waves – a lovely cacophony of life.

Sansa opened her eyes. The rocks were empty save herself. Most people didn’t know about the winding dirt path that led from the side of the Keep down to these rocks. She spotted a few politicians here before, idly watching the waves, or idly ignoring their vows of  _ honor and duty _ . That was a sight Sansa wished she could forget.

“Oh.”

The man stopped on the path, rocks sliding down the dirt, rolling in tune with the Sept bells. Because of the jutting rocks, they hadn’t seen each other. Because of the din of bells, they hadn’t heard each other.

But now that they had – something kept Sansa’s gaze focused on him. On the soft curls of black and silver that blew across his forehead in the breeze. On the finery of his clothes despite the heat (only a speckle of dust on shoes from the footpath. The rest, pristine and pressed). The way he was staring at her, too, with the same intensity, the same  _ searching _ . Her mind tried to piece him to a face passing by in her endless days spent in the city. There was a tug of familiarity, but when Sansa pulled at it, it dissolved.

“Hi,” she said, finally breaking the peaceful silence.

A few seconds passed, the man staring at her with wide eyes.  _ Kind eyes _ , Sansa thought. 

“Hi.”

Something urged Sansa to pluck one of her roses out. A lavender one, one of a pair. She offered it to the man with a smile on her face. He blinked at her, at it, at the kindness of the offer, before reaching out and grabbing it. A moment where their fingers brushed around the stem. Sansa tried to ignore the warmth of his skin. Like her, he bent forward to smell the rose. All the while, his gaze was on her. All the while, Sansa marveled at the softness there: the soft mossy color of his eyes, the soft creases lining his skin, the softness of his hand as he held the rose delicately between fingers. The softness of his lips as he smiled.

“Have a good day,” she said, by way of excusing herself. She heard a quiet  _ You too _ as she walked past him.

A certain fuzziness filled her chest. This feeling: soft laziness, warm happiness. The feeling of  _ Sunday _ . Sansa imagined living in the feeling for the rest of her life.

Her  _ true love _ could be anyone in King’s Landing. Or Westeros. Or even across the Narrow Sea. For all she knew it was the man that sold her roses, or the woman she bumped into whilst staring at the new line of dresses, or someone she would never meet.

Or even this man with silver in his hair.

The Sept bells were still ringing noon across the city. The birds still singing their songs of love and loneliness, calling out blindly for each other. The waves still lapping at the rocks, hoping one day they might crest the cliff onto solid ground.

One day – one day the Sept bells would ring for Sansa during her wedding. She would be the most beautiful lady in the Sept, her gown ivory and embroidered with the silver and opal of wolves. Her family in the crowd, her friends too, smiling and laughing and living off of her happiness. And her partner, just as beautiful, just as happy, and smiling. At her.

_ I will love them with all my heart,  _ she thought.  _ And they’ll love me, too. And we will live like everyday is Sunday _ .

Twelve struck, and the air grew quiet again. Sansa glanced back down the path, at the waves and the rocks and the birds. And at the man below, who was staring up at her. Watching her, with the rose clutched to his heart.

Wondering the same dream.

 


End file.
